[Suzerain of Sheol]

Feeling the crushing weight of the distant presence, Shealtiel struggles to control his breathing. The more he studies it from afar, the more its... stain on the fabric of this world seeps into him, enervating, weakening his already strained constitution.

Knuckles white on his cane, hunched, nearly doubled over, he speaks to the group in a raspy croak, his arm trembling trying to hold himself upright.

"I..." he is grudging to ask for help even now. "I require healing, before we go on. Whatever awaits, it is of Sheol. I do not know... don't know if I'm close to strong enough to make a difference, but as I am, I'm useless to you all. Does anyone have any Water left?"

He shudders at the thought of consuming the distilled Thuergy, knowing the pain it will cause his Sheol-blotted soul. Still, needs must.